


Waking in Ithilien

by igraine1419



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo begins to fear that Sam will never forgive him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking in Ithilien

For hours I watched him sleeping, even in the darkness, that was not dark, but lit by the light of a million fractured stars, shards of brilliance blinking between the shifting beech leaves as they moved in an invisible wind. He lay with his face turned up to the sky, his hands pressed against his chest, as if feeling for the beating of his heart, or some other, subtler thing that he clutched the ghost of. His face looked tired, but his body appeared utterly at peace; drifting, calm, as if it had accepted this long rest and was already healed of all fight and pain. It seemed he would not trouble if he were never to wake again, but slept on and on into eternity. 

It was what we expected, after all, as we lay in the midst of fire and fume. Never this, this place of peace, the sweet air full of the sound of water and the blossoming spring. I had forgotten the world could be so beautiful. I wish I could lie down and let the scents and sounds of it bear me to sleep, perhaps forever, but somehow, even here, I cannot rest. It’s as if I still belong the Old World, the one that has departed, ripped in two and cleansed with fire and flood. I am still tethered there, in the closed pages of another book. 

My body aches for sleep, but I would rather sit here and watch. Countless times he did this for me, it is the least I can do in return. It pains me to think of all the times I struck him with sharp words or shook off his arm. Most of it I can’t even remember, there must have been more, so much that is unforgivable. He must wake soon, and he will remember, and no apology will ever be enough. Worst of all, I cannot tell of the comfort of his arms and the song in the tower, and his voice moving in the air, like a bird showing me the way in the darkness. 

When I woke in the night I was struck by the knowledge of this place. It wasn’t in the air, the sweet herbs and the grasses, or the stately groves of trees; it wasn’t even in the running water of the stream; my memory was of a feeling of love. Of waking from a dream of unutterable sweetness to find Sam standing over me, speaking softly, promising delights. We shared the feast together, eating from the same pans, laughing as we passed the battered fork and spoon between us, and suddenly I thought: my mouth is where his mouth has been. It seemed such a strange thought, I didn’t dwell on it, but laughed and let it blow through my mind, tangled with the beautiful dream, a part of this place, a scrap of fancy carried on the breeze. I would often return to it when I was in my right mind to remember and would turn it over and puzzle over it, like a thing of antiquity. 

I never thought to find it here again, snagged on these high branches, waiting to be recovered.

I watch for him to wake, although I am almost afraid of it. I am as expectant as a child on Yule night, hoping for a present so delicate and fine it could be broken by the slightest clumsiness. I wish I had a feast prepared for him, laid ready on a white cloth, all the foods he loves and more treasures still - fruits and cheeses and golden wine - yet none of these things would be enough when compared with that broken spoon and the old, soot stained pans and the shock and delight of laughter in the midst of all that darkness. 

I realise then I have nothing to give. Only myself, and that seems a very poor thing. 

He will be so full of amazement when he wakes, he probably won’t even notice me sitting here, he will be blinking in the sun and his joy will be uncontained. Thankful for this bright new morning, he will run out to meet it, grateful, newborn. He will look to me for the same, but I shall not be the same and I will disappoint him and remind him of past hurts, like a shadow passing over the sun. 

Perhaps it would be better for him if I wasn’t sitting here when he wakes; better that he sees the sunlight through the leaves, than the heaviness in my eyes. Abruptly I rise, swooning a little in my haste, clutching one of the tree trunks for support as I turn once more to look at him. He reaches out a hand, feeling the empty space I have vacated, the wrinkled covers unsettled beneath his flattened palm. He strokes twice and then grips hard, as if in sudden fear, a frown crumpling his face and he almost moans, searching blindly. 

_Forgive me_ , I whisper, walking back to the little bed and lying down once more beside him. _I can’t leave you now._

I think I fall asleep again. I don’t mean to, but the touch of his hand curling around my own, and the sweet relief from throbbing pain and tortured thought, bring such comfort and love, I feel absolved. 

_Dear master_ Sam murmurs, as if he is beginning a letter. And somehow, from deep in dreams, I know that I am forgiven.


End file.
